


On the way to a smile

by orphan_account



Series: It's the little things... [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: IgNoct, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 18:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12917535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: How would you describe Ignis' lips and hands, Noctis?





	On the way to a smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HisGlasses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisGlasses/gifts), [eveshka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eveshka/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own FFXV or any of its content, yada yada yada. It's all the property of Square Enix, and they frequently make me cry with it :T
> 
> A/N: thank the Ignoct chat for this one, too. Hands and lips were separate prompts but I've combined the two and now I can only stare at what's become of this oneshot. _This isn't what I intended_.

I can't describe them, not exactly, but... I can tell you what they mean to me.

I remember a boy taller than me hiding behind his Uncle's legs like I did with my father's, the cautious peeking and the annoying flash of light on the surface of his glasses.  I wanted to stomp over there and pluck them off just so they'd stop making my eyes hurt, but I was rooted to the spot instead and whining at my Dad when he tried to nudge me forward, stubbornly curling my fingers in crisply ironed fabric and smooshing my face against his thigh to  _hide_ from the adults' laughter when I pouted (I can admit that  _now_ , but back then I was determined I did no such thing).  I remember a shy voice asking for my name when the taller boy reached out to clasp one of my hands in both of his, warm and soft and  _small_ like mine, the brief flash of a smile when I couldn't pronounce his name correctly and it came out sounding like  _"Ignish_ _"._

I remember that same smile pulling wide over the boy's teeth, and then parting on laughter when we shot out countless rooms and through the maze of corridors, the pounding footsteps of pranked adults in pursuit gradually lost with every corner we pelted around.  I remember bouncing myself off so much furniture by accident, but sometimes I'd strike lucky and Ignis would grab hold of my arm and pull to stop me skidding right into a wall thanks to my fuzzy socks and their nonexistent grips.  Sometimes I woudn't be so fortunate and I'd go  _splat_ instead, taking Ignis down with me on the rebound, and we'd end up just lying there in a heap until someone discovered us, shaking in fits of giggles that brought tears to my eyes and sent him into a round of hiccups.

I remember those lips ghosting over my ear whenever Ignis leaned in close and stuck out his arm so I could try following the point of his finger to whatever constellation he whispered about, up on the rooftops we weren't supposed to be near, but snuck up to anyway.  The same lips that went all weird and off-center when he fell asleep with a fist curled under his cheek, both of us safe and warm under the blanket he always managed to smuggle right out from under his Uncle's nose.  I remember joining the stars in staring at him when his lips  _moved_.  In his sleep!  Like he was trying to talk but no words were coming, and if I wiggled closer just to listen for any mutters under his breath, well.  I was a curious kid.

I remember he pouted more after Dad rushed us back from Tenebrae.  Pouted and frowned, and that little groove between his eyebrows tormented me every time it popped up because I wanted to  _poke_ it and smooth it away again because it didn't look right on Iggy's face, but... I was always so tired and sore, I never did quite muster the energy to do that.  I remember crying harder after the therapy sessions, not because of the agony I was in, but because of the blood on his mouth and the super thin line his lips were pressed into, thinking it  _just wasn't fair_ that Iggy had to hurt, too.  All I wanted was for him to smile again, to see his eyes light up when I asked for a story and to hear his excited chatter before he even cracked open a book, but the few times I asked him to... he couldn't grin like I remembered, all white teeth and puffed-out cheeks, and he couldn't keep it up for very long before he was petting at my hair with a shaking hand and he sounded so  _sad_ whenever he said my name.  I think he thought I cried because of the nightmares, or the sharp pain if he jostled me whenever he climbed into bed with me to give me a hug and guard me against the daemons prowling in every shadow, but it was him.   _Everything_ had changed, even our friendship, and I just wanted to be normal again.

I remember the months of recovery after the daemon attack, struggling to make my feet  _work_ and shuffle forward a few steps at a time with all those people around me with their white coats and hands that pulled and prod at me until I was screaming and begging them to stop.  I remember snotty tissues and being sick and shivering so bad I blacked out from the  _pain_ , crying into my pillow some more when Dad said it was  _necessary_ , that if I didn't suffer then I wouldn't get better (well, he didn't say  _that_ , but that's what it sounded like to a traumatised kid just wanting to sleep).  I remember Iggy's mouth all screwed up and his face all splotchy red, eyes puffy from him rubbing at them so much, smacking at every adult who tried to touch me after I passed out the first time, holding my hands in his with every slow and painful step I took to match his going back after he'd finished his schoolwork.  I don't know what he said to me throughout the days he stuck to my side like glue during therapy, but I remember his lips moving, and I remember the careful brace of his arm around my shoulders and his hand in my hair, soothing in its familiarity.

I remember the first time I saw him speechless, mouth dropping open like his jaw had just unhinged, textbooks hitting the floor and making an obstacle course for my unsteady feet to navigate.  I wasn't  _walking_ so much as  _tottering_ over to him, but it was under my own power and it was without help and he  _smiled_ like I remembered, before a daemon stole everything away from me, and then we were both laughing and we were crying and I wanted nothing more than for him to hug me as tight as I was hugging him, but he was still so careful about my injured back even then.

Years later, innocence and naivety torn away and both of us slogging through all the awkward stints of being teenagers, I started seeing what Ignis was like in a  _mood_.  How his hands would curl into fists so tight his knuckles would drain of all colour, jam into his arms when he folded them across his chest and his eyes would snap sparks behind his glasses.  How his smile would turn  _sinister_ as barbed comments whipped from his mouth as easily as the daggers he trained with.  Oh sure, he was good at hiding his moods  _most_ of the time, but we'd pretty much grown up together by that point.  I knew what the twitch at the corner of his mouth meant, I knew to run for the fucking hills if he fussed with the cuff of the glove on his left hand and tugged it in one direction and then the other  _exactly twice_ , I knew it was a sign of  _war_ if only one half of his mouth curved up into something of a smirk, I just never seemed to have popcorn handy for the  _spectacular_ fireworks about to kick off.  Taking off his glasses and cleaning them  _meticulously_ was a sign of stress, an excuse to cast his eyes downward and remove everyone else's chance at reading him, his mouth pinching into a thin line meant aggravation or, occasionally, exhaustion from running himself ragged while ill and sleep-deprived.  Wide eyes and parted lips was still all shock though, that never changed.

Our first kiss was... something of an unplanned accident, I guess.  I only  _meant_ to shut him up, I didn't think he'd  _kiss me back_   _and pin me against the nearest wall_.  Probably a good thing no-one walked in on us with that, because I'm  _pretty_ sure I moaned at some point.  His lips were a little dry then, a little cracked, and they usually are nowadays, too.  I still don't know how he can remember all the witchcraft involved with his cooking and all the sensory cues needed to so easily navigate his surroundings without sight... but somehow forget something as basic as lip balm to keep them from splitting open and bleeding.  Not that I mind if they  _do_... gives me an excuse to kiss him in front of the other two and give Prom the middle finger for all his gagging noises.  Ignis makes a  _nice_ little sound in the back of his throat when I lick the blood from his lips and nibble at the scar on the bottom one, _literally_ kiss him better with a little dusting of healing magic.

And if that little noise is  _delightful_ , then he sounds like temptation incarnate when kiss-bitten lips part on a   _groan_ of my name, something only I'm allowed to hear in the privacy of our quarters when strong hands grip my shoulders tight and nails prick at my skin, something only I'm allowed to encourage with lips and teeth and tongue on his throat when he throws his head back, a sharp inhale my only warning that he's  _close_.

Even _that_ doesn't compare to the swell of warmth in my heart when his arm pulls the covers up to my shoulders and he burrows in close to my back, hand somehow always finding mine in the dark.  His hands aren't perfect, y'know.  They're marked with fine white lines from his many mishaps handling sharp objects over the years, and there's a scar on his right palm matched on the back of his hand from one of the fights with Magitek Troopers over a decade ago, an old wound that very nearly ruined the use of his hand entirely, and there are patches of rough skin from when poison flicked off his blades in battle, from the fire he still summons like a second skin whenever there's a threat approaching.  They've got blood on them too, they're steeped in it... but so are mine, and for all that his hands can incapacitate and maim and kill, they've been nothing but gentle and caring with me, pressing deep until stubborn knots unwind in my shoulders, feather-light and tender when dancing over the scar on my back, sweet and sentimental when bare fingertips relearn the shape of my face in the dead of night.  I asked him about that once - he says it helps him see me in his dreams.

And every night as he drifts off, no matter how tired I am, I kiss his mouth, his nose, his eyes, and his scars, and smile when I hear his sleepy chuckle.

 _I love you_ , I say, my last words to him until the next sunrise.


End file.
